


Don't Use Writing To Get Love

by WaggishCape



Category: Original Work
Genre: Bittersweet, Didactic, Dorks in Love, F/M, Farewell letter, Posthumous, Relationship(s), Sad and Sweet, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:29:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22820251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaggishCape/pseuds/WaggishCape
Summary: This is my first note back to you.It's a little later than I intended, but I'm sure you'll enjoy it anyway.
Kudos: 1





	Don't Use Writing To Get Love

I see you everywhere. In the empty mug in my hand, stained from the hundreds of cups of iced coffee. Your special spot on the couch that we always fought over. In the night sky where I dream and wish to bring you back from wherever your stardust resides. In the presence of death, you taught me that we were all immortal in design. No, not design. Immortal in  _ desire. _

That’s what you titled your first note to me, a draft on a simple napkin. I hadn’t really been bothered by the sugary stains so much as I was laughing at your attempt to draw me in with words comparing my face to a Venetian painting or my blue eyes to the endless ocean. Yet, you didn’t waver.

Each note became a whole story for us, drawing us together like Nutella and peanut butter, as you described rather than using “like a moth to a flame.” You even talked about your features: ginger hair like waves of orange peels, skin pale enough to match the egg white walls of our home, and a nose sharp enough to cut butter. I remember holding you in my arms, giggling at how your boss wouldn’t let you compare some political dandy to an old piece of gum on the sidewalk as some allegory in your old city story. I remember I couldn’t tell if you were joking or not about naming our son ‘Kal-El the first of Krypton’, not to be confused with, as you said, “that one boring comic book character that everyone likes for some reason.”

I wish I wrote to you about each of your awkward kisses and numbed hickies. I wish I wrote about how despite your extravagant flair, I couldn’t believe your favorite restaurant was still Burger King. I wish I wrote about that polished forehead of yours and how you’d let me kiss it every day. I wish I wrote about your last piece, the one where the hero finds that the power of love and friendship  _ cannot _ solve every problem.

All I have left of you is sorted in these notes, napkins, and stories. The incomplete picture of a complete, lovable clown.

I’m writing to you now, at the stone marked with your name and date with your own inscription: “I told you I was sick.” Even now, I laugh and cry with each pen stroke. I’m writing to you now to say that I miss you. And so does Kal.


End file.
